


Double-Kick & Lead

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: Dethklok Drabbles-a-Roonie-Doonie [6]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: A collection of short stories about Skwisgaar and Pickles having a thing.
Relationships: Pickles the Drummer/Skwisgaar Skwigelf
Series: Dethklok Drabbles-a-Roonie-Doonie [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1125033
Kudos: 11





	Double-Kick & Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 17 prompt, "Birthday or sick day." I was _going_ to work both in, but then I hit 1.5k words and was like . . . you know, maybe another time. But for the record, it was gonna be that they'd planned to spend the day doing something fun because it was one of their birthdays, but Pickles is too sick so they don't and that's fine. 
> 
> I've never written this pairing before, but the dynamic I ended up landing on is interesting.

Pickles woke up and immediately wished he hadn’t. Dim recollection told him that if he threw up he wouldn’t choke on it unless he was looking up at the ceiling, and he was pretty sure he was staring into a pillow. That was good. If he died now, he’d have to go to Hell sober, and that wouldn’t be any fun. 

A body stirred next to him, long and lithe and . . . kinda bony. 

“ _Caaaaoou gimmeeeea eeeeeeere_?” Pickles groaned into his pillow. 

“Huhh?” yawned his companion. 

After a moment, it occurred to him that what he’d said had come out sounding like how mashed potatoes looked. Ugh . . . don’t think about potatoes. And also he was drooling. He lifted his head just out of the damp spot and repeated plaintively, “Can you gimme a beer?” 

The dip in the mattress next to him went away, and over the pounding in his head he heard his emergency flat of six-packs being dragged out from under the bed. A moment later a room temperature can was pressed into Pickles’ hand and he rolled laboriously over so he could pour some in his mouth without having to sit up. 

Another can popped and fizzed as it was opened nearby and someone asked, “Betters?”

“Hoooo, gimme a minute.” He pressed the bottom of the can to his forehead, trying to cool himself down, and was annoyed when it didn’t work. “Ugh. What? Oh . . . yeah, fresh booze taste is better’n stale booze taste, I guess. Gimme a minute. . . .”

The bed dipped again, whoever it was sitting down next to him and taking a long sip of lukewarm beer. “Sures, takes however whats time you needs. You wants a colds washcloth for you’s head?”

Pickles cracked an eye open and focused blearily on the blond figure next to him. “. . . Skwisgaar? S’that you?”

“Ja, whose else woulds I be?”

“Dood, y’can’t . . . answer a question with a question. . . . It ain’t fair.” He gulped down the rest of his breakfast and tossed the can off into the unknown. It hit other cans and tumbled to an eventual stop with a series of unfortunately loud noises. Fuck, he should probably let the Klokateers in to clean soon. Later. 

“You wants anothers one?”

His stomach lurched. “Not right now. Can I get that towel though?”

“Ja, sures.” Skwisgaar patted him on the hip and got up to head for the bathroom. 

It occurred to Pickles then that he was naked as the day he was born; he’d felt Skwisgaar’s hand on his actual skin, rather than through his tighty whities. 

Huh. 

It also occurred to him that it was kinda weird to wake up and Skwisgaar was just, right there. Sometimes he let Skiwsgaar and Murderface crash in his room after another fucked up movie fest, and even Toki when he’d been brave or stupid enough to watch too. But Murderface snored, and if Toki were here he’d either be awake and chattery or kicking in his sleep, and Pickles didn’t _remember_ a movie night. 

Skwisgaar came back and laid a cool washcloth across his forehead, but then—and this was unusual, Pickles thought—he slipped a hand between dreads and pillow, lifting Pickles’ head just enough to slide a second washcloth under the back of his neck. At first it felt cold and made him shiver, but after a few seconds it felt _amazing_. Like, floating-on-air good. Didn’t make the nausea go away, but it felt easier to bear. 

“Fuck, dood, that’s awesome,” he mumbled, eyes slipping closed again. 

And the more he relaxed, the more he started to notice a certain, not unpleasant sort of ache. 

Hmm. Well . . . shit. 

“Hey, Skwisgaar?”

The other man was back to lounging on the bed beside him now. “Ja?”

“Did we do somethin’ last night? ‘Cause . . . I think I mighta blacked out.”

That was a trick he’d learned back in the eighties, always leave a loophole. It had served him well in his Snakes N Barrels days—hell, he’d used it on Tony a couple dozen times, at least. The option to pretend nothing had happened and leave Vegas in Vegas, or whatever, no harm no foul. 

But instead of taking it, Skwisgaar chuckled. “Don’t gots to does that. I knows you knows what we dids, even if you don’t remembers.”

“Er.” Pickles squirmed. “What gives you that idea?”

“Because last nights you was all, _‘Doods I am sooo goings to feels that ins the morning_!’”

“. . . I do _naht_ sound that nasal,” he grumbled, and heard his Yooper accent come out even stronger in his annoyed embarrassment. It sounded like something he might say though, and, well. He _could_. “Fuck, okey, yeah. So we did stuff.” 

He dared to look when Skwisgaar moved, and watched the Swede prop himself up on one elbow, unapologetically naked. And hell, the view did ring some bells, including calling back the knowledge that Skwisgaar was both a shower _and_ a grower. That couldn’t be right, could it? Was that a thing?

“You wants some weed? I found some earliers when I wokes up befores you.”

Pickles could’ve said something about Skwisgaar rummaging through his drawers, but decided against it. “Yeah, couldn’t hurt. Is that why you’re being so chill about this?”

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. “Why woulds I need to gets high to be chills? Ams no big deals, just caskuals sex betweens bandmates whats with no feelings to worries about. Likes, hows you forgots alls my best moves, but it don’ts matter because thats just makes you a greats forst times audience if its happen agains. See? No bigs deals.”

“. . . Dude, are you gonna get the bong or not? ‘Cause I got joints, but if you’re not gettin’ the bong then I’m not sharing.”

He rolled his eyes heavenward with practiced Scandinavian superiority and rolled over to root around on the messy floor around the bed. In doing so he provided a great view of his ass, which Pickles contemplated thoughtfully. 

Casual sex between bandmates, no strings attached. That sounded great, actually. Pickles was starting to actually mind that he had blacked out a little bit, when he usually considered that a sign of a night well spent—he was curious. What was the world’s fastest guitarist like in bed? It was going to bug him now, to have experienced it yet not actually _know_. But from the sound of things, it had to be worth doing again and Skwisgaar wasn’t ruling out the possibility. 

Just as long as it didn’t become any more of a thing than that. Lucky, Dethklok had an agreement: bandmates didn’t take an interest in each other’s lives, lest it upset the delicate balance and tear the band apart. 

And . . . huh. It occurred to him that the kind of casual sex Skwisgaar was talking about could just as easily apply to any of the other guys, too.

“Wait, have you done this with anyone else?” Pickles asked, a smirk starting to form. He was still flat on his back so the ceiling was getting the best view of it, but still. Oh that would be so fucking funny. Toki seemed the obvious candidate, but what if it was Nathan? What if it was _Murderface?_

“That ams dangerously close tos taking an interest between whos theys doing with their lives,” Skwisgaar replied. He’d found the bong and still hanging off the edge of the bed to pack a bowl. 

Now _that_ was clever. If he kept tugging on that thread he’d end up strangled by a conversational noose. Set by _Skwisgaar_ , who after over a decade of speaking English hadn’t gotten any better it from when he’d first met the guy, like some sort of sex-and-guitars idiot savant. 

“Touché,” he conceded.

“Tushy?”

“Huh? No, it’s . . . French. Maybe Spanish. Means, I dunno, good point’er something.”

“Ohs. Kays.” Skwisgaar sat back up and held out the bong. “Sits ups, takes a hits already. Then maybes I cans grab yous ass?”

Pickles was slowly levering himself up into a sitting position, but made a sound like _ha-wuh?_ in response. As soon as the bong changed hands Skwisgaar was already reaching, shifting close enough to remind Pickles very vividly that they were both bare-ass naked. 

Aw shit, was he gonna have to get an STD test again after this? Probably a good idea. Besides, antibiotics always made any kind trip wild and new. Then Pickles was sitting up all the way and two things happened. 

First, the washcloth on his forehead fell off and landed damply in his lap, hiding the evidence that he was already pretty into this whole thing. 

Second, he remembered why he’d been laying down when the nausea roared up again in reaction to moving. “Ooooooooooooooooooooh oooooooooooooooooooooooooh,” he groaned as he shoved the bong back at Skwisgaar and lunged for the bathroom. 

And if Skwisgaar was helpful enough to hold his dreds back so they didn’t get puke on them while Pickles prayed to the porcelain god, well. Pickles didn’t ask about it. That would’ve been showing an interest.


End file.
